Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

  Marla’s smile lit up her face.

  I told Marla our special sessions for beginners might be a good place to start. We call them “Newbie Do-bie Do” classes.

  “I can do this?” She gestured to the rows of pages we displayed on our walls.

  “Absolutely. I’ll teach you how.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She hesitated. “I’ve got money, you know.”

  I didn’t know. I figured we’d work something out if she didn’t. A few days later she returned and pulled a wad of photos from a dingy cloth purse. “Where do I sign up for your class?”

  I added her to the roster. We looked over her photos together.

  Viewing other people’s pictures is definitely one of the best parts of my job. Marla pointed out her children, talked about them briefly, and then pushed those photos aside quickly. She grew animated when she came to the pictures of her cats, telling me their names and describing their personalities in great detail. At long last, we came to photos of a little boy, taken by an old Polaroid Swinger Camera. These she touched with a sort of reverence.

  “Anthony Dale Lever. Died when he was seven. Fell off a swing. Messing around. Showing off. Like kids do. Took him to the playground and I…my back was turned.” Her voice cracked a little. “I should have protected my baby.”

  My mouth went dry as we both considered every parent’s greatest fear, the loss of a child. I couldn’t imagine life without Anya.

  As always, the only suitable response to so much emotion was to offer our guest a cold beverage from the refrigerator in the backroom. The trip from the front of the store to the stockroom would give her a bit of privacy and give me a chance to get control of myself. I snapped up a Diet Dr Pepper for me and a cold Coke for Marla.

  But when I returned to the sales floor, Marla had vanished.

  16

  Present day…

  Since the day she was born, Anya had been my first and last waking thought. I ended every day by checking on my daughter, reassuring myself she was fine. Tonight Anya was asleep in her bed, curled on one side. Gracie rested on an old braided rug at the foot of Anya’s bed.

  If only I could keep her from every pain and heartache that life would send my daughter’s way!

  If only.

  Since my husband George’s murder, I’d come to realize that the world is a messy and unpredictable place. People you trust can deceive you. Even when they love you, people can let you down.

  Marla had let her son Anthony down. Clearly, she’d never forgiven herself or gotten over his death. How could she? How could any mother?

  Perhaps Marla’s cats were a source of comfort when she lost her son.

  I couldn’t imagine the sort of damage a person’s psyche would sustain when forced to endure the loss of a child. Correction: I didn’t want to imagine the pain.

  Feeling restless, I searched my kitchen cabinets until I found a small white candle. I lit it and said a prayer. I asked God to watch over Marla. And of course, I asked him to bless my daughter.

  The next morning, I woke up with a bad headache. Fighting the pain, I grabbed a bag of coffee the wrong way, and the last of the precious beans dumped all over my kitchen floor. I’m not a germ-o-phobe; I swept up the brown beans, intending to use them. On closer examination, I had also gathered a nice clump of dog hair. I tried to pick the hairs out, but that didn’t work. Maybe I could blow away the hairs, the way my mother used to blow away the spent birdseed in our parakeet’s cage. That helped a little, but not enough.

  Should I give in and put the beans in the grinder? The hairs would count as fiber.

  Even with my incredibly low standards, I couldn’t do it. I would have to forego coffee. Given my headache, I saw no relief from feeling foggy and dull.

  Food would help. I poured milk over my generic cereal and a clog of white goop fell into the bowl. I stared at it. What on earth? I stood there, trying to decide if the milk was frozen or if it had turned to cottage cheese.

  Gracie sniffed the air.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” I told her. “Looks like I need to dip a finger in that white mess and taste it. Ugh. Definitely not good. Totally inedible.”

  “Nuts,” I said. But I didn’t have any. The cupboard was bare.

  Gracie pricked up her ears. A knock on the backdoor followed. The sound signaled the arrival of my neighbor and landlord, Leighton Haversham. I hesitated because I wasn’t appropriately dressed for company, but Leighton knocked again.

  “This’ll have to do,” I told Gracie as I looked down at my extra-long tee-shirt. “I’m gorgeous and I know it,” was printed across my chest. The shirt had been a gag gift from Mert. Since I still had eye-ookies stuck to my lashes, and my hair stuck out like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket, the slogan seemed comical. But for the most part I was fully dressed. Sort of.

  “Hi.” Leighton smiled at me. He took in my weird attire and apologized. “Sorry if I woke you up. Did you remember that I’m leaving this morning for a book tour?”

  “I remember. I’m just moving slowly. I’m taking care of Petunia and Monroe while you’re gone.”

  “Right.” In Leighton’s arms he held Petunia, a neutered male pug who stared at me with goo-goo-googly eyes. My landlord delivered the pup to me. Tunie wriggled into a new position so he could lick my face. I responded by blinking and trying to focus. But I was largely unsuccessful. Leighton wore a puzzled expression, as if trying to figure me out.

  “You need coffee.”

  “I sure do. I spilled the beans. Uh, my beans. The coffee beans. Uh, you wouldn’t happen to have any lying around?”

  “Sure do. Anything else you need?”

  “Milk? Cereal?”

  “Be right back.”

  Five minutes later, he handed over a fabric shopping sack with a new bag of freshly ground Columbian coffee, a half-gallon of milk, and two boxes of high quality granola. “How much do I owe you?” I asked.

  “Not a cent. You look like you need this more than I do. It would have all gone bad before I get back. Have a good day.”

  Things were looking up, but I was still running behind, and the Universe decided not to cooperate with me. I discovered a rip in my favorite knit top, right along the seam. Anya wouldn’t get out of the shower. Gracie and Petunia decided to sniff every inch of grass between the house and my car before emptying their bladders. Anya stood beside my old BMW and she wore a daydreaming sort of look on her face. First I loaded Petunia into the backseat. Then I urged Gracie to climb in. She was half in and half out when she spotted the squirrel.

  My gosh.

  There’s this one squirrel in our backyard who seems to know how to tease Gracie. That rodent races toward my dog and darts away, over and over. To Gracie, this behavior is like waving the green flag at a race car driver in the Indy 500. Her motor revs into high gear— and she’s off.

  On this particular morning, my Great Dane nearly yanked my arm out of the socket. Since my dog and I weigh roughly the same, it’s a real tussle to get her under control. Today, she took full advantage of the surprise. I still had one hand tucked under her collar when she took off. I followed along as she leaped toward the nearest oak tree. I took two stumbling steps forward before catching my toe under a root. That brought me down face first into the dirt.

  “Anya! Help me! Grab her.”

  Anya took off after Gracie and caught the dog. From my spot on the ground, I watched my daughter clip the leash onto Gracie’s collar while I picked bits of grass out of my teeth.

  What a start to the day.

  17

  I dropped Anya off at the St. Louis Science Center, where she reluctantly climbed out of the car. “I’m not a baby, and I hate summer camp,” she said before slamming the door on my old BMW.

  “Have a nice day!” I called to her retreating back. “Your grandmother will pick you up this afternoon.”

  Anya lifted one shoulder in a ha
lf-hearted signal before I drove away.

  I like getting to work at least an hour before the store opens. However, on this particular morning I counted myself lucky to slip in with five minutes to spare. Gracie and Petunia went obediently into the doggy playpen. I put away my purse and my lunchbox. After snapping on the lights, I walked to the front door and flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN.

  I had opened our money drawer and was getting set up for the day when the back door slammed. Rebekkah came strolling in, fifteen minutes late. She looked around, saw that I was at the checkout counter and turned to go back into her mother’s office.

  “You remembered to stop by the bank?” I called after her.

  “I forgot.” She kept walking.

  That left us with only two ten dollar bills and a roll of pennies. While it’s becoming less and less frequent that our scrapbookers pay with cash, we typically keep two twenties, three tens, four fives, twenty ones, and an assortment of quarters, nickels, and dimes in the cash register. As it stood, we wouldn’t be able to make change for a twenty or a ten, the two bills most frequently presented.

  This did not make me happy.

  Behind the cash register was the reservation tally, a list showing me how many people had signed up to attend that evening’s crop. There were no names on the list. That didn’t make any sense.

  We always have a full house for our Friday crops. Always.

  “Rebekkah?” I stuck my head inside the office. The Sales Mangler was sitting in her mother’s chair, reading a copy of Rolling Stone Magazine. “Do you know how many people are coming tonight?”

  “Nope.”

  I took a deep breath. “We usually keep a reservation tally. Have you been recording names somewhere else?”

  She squinted at me. “Isn’t that your job?”

  I counted to ten. “Not if they call when I’m not here. Or if they send an RSVP by email.”

  “I’d say plan for the usual number. I didn’t have time to write down all the names. I was busy when they called.”

  “If I don’t have a list of names, how am I supposed to know how many kits we need? Or did you already put the kits together? You were going to kit stuff up while I was running the crop at Marla’s, right?”

  She examined a fingernail very, very closely. “Like I said, I got busy.”

  “What exactly does that mean? Busy? Did you do some other chore for which I'm not familiar?” She reached into the top drawer of the desk and found her iPod. With a deft move, she stuck the ear buds into her ears before turning to me and saying, “That means, I think I told Clancy to take care of the kits. Maybe. Now go away. Like I told you, I’m busy.”

  She was busy?

  I was so angry I could have spit thumbtacks.

  While I stood there fuming, she ignored me and sang, “Want your body, love your body.” That made me see red, literally. Another minute and I would start screaming. Instead, I turned on my heel and left the office. Once I made it to the sales floor, I went directly to my work table. Underneath was the plastic storage container where we keep the “make-and-take” kits for each upcoming event.

  Nothing was there. Nothing. Not one blessed kit.

  I stood there seething.

  The phone rang. I moved over to the checkout stand to grab it. My hand was on the receiver when I recognized Dodie and Horace’s home number, so I didn’t pick up. Instead, I turned away and walked back toward the office. Before I got there, I heard Rebekkah yelling, “Not my fault! Talk to Kiki! She’s the one who called it off! Kiki!”

  Rebekkah stepped outside the office. “Kiki? Mom wants to talk to you!”

  “I’ll take it up front.”

  “Lottie Feister called.” Dodie sounded irked from the other end of the phone.

  “I just bet she did.”

  “She wasn’t happy.”

  “No, I imagine not.”

  “Why did you cancel that crop? You know that means lost income. We’ll have a hoard of angry scrapbookers wanting refunds and discounts. You have no authority to cancel crops! I’m the big kahuna, and Rebekkah is the store manager. It should have been her decision.”

  “I wish it had been. I wish she would take responsibility for something. Anything! Your daughter knows exactly why the crop was canceled. Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t tell you. Clancy called her from the Lever house. We found Marla unconscious in her bedroom. The temp inside the house was in the mid-90s, and guess what? Marla’s a hoarder, so there were stacks and stacks of newspaper in the place. Just an itty bitty path to walk along. There were also nearly a hundred cats. And no litter boxes. Instead, they used every available surface. You can guess how the place stunk.”

  “What?” Dodie choked out the word.

  “It gets better. Did you hear about the dead cat in the middle of Marla’s dining room table? Hmm? Or the herds of starving kitties who crawled all over us? Huh? Personally, I think those were great reasons for canceling the event. And there’s more,” I took a deep breath because now I was practically screaming into the phone, “Yes, more, Dodie. It got worse. You see I sent everyone packing before the police found the dead human being in the freezer. Uh-huh, you heard me. The cops found a corpse with a bashed in face. Consequently, I don’t much care if Lottie Feister is calling you and complaining. Nope. I’m happy she’s calling and complaining. Because she doesn’t have much to complain about!”

  “I-I-I—” Dodie stuttered. “I didn’t know—”

  “No, you didn’t know and you didn’t ask. You didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt, did you? You didn’t stop to think that I was the last person who’d want to miss out on extra income. So, yes, I canceled the crop. And yes, I’ll call everyone and grovel. I was already planning to offer coupons and a make-up session. But here’s the deal: I just hope that no one took any pictures, because the scene at Marla’s wasn’t something I particularly want to put on a scrapbook page. But hey, what do I know? Rebekkah’s our hotshot expert. Maybe she’ll want to schedule our next outing at the morgue!”

  “Now, Kiki —” Dodie shifted into conciliatory mode.

  “Don’t you ‘now, Kiki’ me. Do you realize that we have a crop tonight and your daughter hasn’t made a list of attendees? We don’t have any kits made up, because she didn’t do them. Worse luck, I have no idea how many people to plan for. Maybe I should just take the night off and leave this mess to our Sales Mangler!”

  With that I banged down the phone.

  18

  Rebekkah must have been listening to my tirade, because the minute I was off the phone, she turned up her music full blast.

  Rather than make the situation worse, I decided to steer clear of S & M, aka the Sales Mangler. I needed to simmer down.

  First I would tidy the shelves and then I planned to restock merchandise, before starting on the prep for the evening’s event. Of course, I’d no more than gotten started on these chores when Lottie Feister walked through the door.

  “Lottie, I want to apologize for any inconvenience that we caused you yesterday. Here, let me give you a gift certificate. It’s not much, but it’s our way of saying we feel bad for your trouble.” I moved quickly to my work table and I didn’t look up as I fumbled for the certificate.

  A hand grabbed mine. “Nonsense. I heard about it on the late-late news. A dead body? In the freezer? You will tell me all the details, won’t you, Kiki? I mean, you owe me that much. Were there really nearly a hundred cats? And the newspapers. Were they really stacked from floor to ceiling?” Lottie patted her hair into place, an unnecessary gesture since it was sprayed stiff and hard as a beetle’s shell. “All my friends called me and wanted to hear what I saw. I have three lunch dates and one invitation to dinner this week alone. I guess they’re banking on me telling them more about that house—and the horrible conditions inside.”

  Her eyes sought mine eagerly.

  Lottie had always struck me as a lonely woman, a person who didn’t get out much. Her excitement confirmed my susp
icions. All she wanted was a bit of attention. A chance to feel important. Didn’t we all want the same? To be noticed? To feel like we were special?

  I shouldn’t have been surprised about Lottie’s about-face.

  Hoarders had become “sexy,” now that they’d been featured on Animal Planet. Out of the closet and into the light of day, so to speak.

  “Lottie, you know nearly as much as I do. You saw the condition of the property.”

  “Yes, but you went inside! What did it look like?”

  “Lots of cats and lots of newspaper.”

  “Huh? Could you repeat that?”

  “Cats and newspapers.” I raised my voice.

  “I’m talking about the dead body. Did you see that?”

  “No,” I answered. “I didn’t.”

  She tried a couple more times to get me to elaborate. Finally, I said, “Hey, Lottie, why don’t I show you the new paper we got in from K & Co.? We haven’t even put it on the floor yet. You’ll be the first to play with it. I’m teaching a class in Zentangle®. Can I show some of my tangles to you?”

  “All right, but you’ll have to talk louder. I can hardly hear you over that racket.”

  “That racket” was Rebekkah’s music. I stuck my head in Dodie’s office and asked Rebekkah to dial it down a notch. “Our customer says she can’t hear me.”

  Rebekkah grumped, but did as I requested.

  “Zen-what?” asked Lottie as I took a spot next to her on the work table.

  “Zentangle. It’s an art form built on repetitive patterns. Let me show you.”

  There’s nothing scrapbookers like better than new techniques. Although some might not immediately see Zentangle as a scrapbook technique, there are certainly ways to use it to decorate scrapbook pages. As an additional benefit, “tangling” or doing a Zentangle pattern calms the mind. There’s something distinctly meditative about the repetitive motion. I’ve found that once I commit myself to the process I recognize a distinct “click” as my brain shifts from overactive mode to calm and centered. Sure, that didn’t happen overnight, but it’s now a process on which I can rely. A process that Lottie would enjoy.